


A Good Servant Knows

by onstraysod



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Community: jsmn-kinkmeme, Heartbreak, Kissing, M/M, Revelation of feelings, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4396490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jonathan Strange ends his magical partnership with Gilbert Norrell, Norrell is heartbroken. It is up to his servant, John Childermass, to encourage Norrell to admit his feelings for Strange and to offer comfort of an unexpected nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the _Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell_ Kinkmeme.
> 
> Author's Note: I've followed the series timeline here and omitted the trip to Hurtfew that Norrell and Lascelles took after Strange's departure in the book.

An unnaturally quiet dusk was settling over London on that dreary February day. The wheels of every carriage, the hooves of every horse, the bells of every church, and the shouts of every newsboy hawking his wares were all softened, muffled by the snowflakes that fell, large and lazy, from the darkening sky. Staring out the window of the library in Hanover-square, John Childermass was struck by the power a few inches of frozen condensation could make upon the landscape of the city and its boisterous people. Like field mice the pedestrians watched the sky warily and, huddled down in their coats and mufflers, scuttled as fast their legs could carry them for shelter, leaving the streets as barren as country fields. Horses stepped gingerly over the glistening carpet; stray dogs and alley cats had vanished somewhere into the white shadows. It was as if the buildings and bridges had been lifted up by some unseen power and planted down again in the Arctic wastes. So emptied was Hanover-square that Childermass could imagine that half the population of London had lost their grip on the pavement during the journey and, tumbling into the air, had been dispersed by a cold northern wind.

The one exception to this quietness, it seemed, was Hanover-square itself. The front door was being opened with its usual regularity, admitting a stream of government officials or their underlings, all of whom shivered and stamped on the threshold, knocking the snow off their coats and boots to melt in little puddles on the hall floor and cursing the weather with a hundred different oaths. Then they paced before the staircase or idled in the drawing room, jockeying for a prime position before the fire while they waited for their turn to consult with Mr. Norrell. Davey and Lucas were forever going back and forth, conducting those gentlemen Childermass let out of the library back to the drawing room for a glass of spiced wine or sherry before they braved the frozen wastes between the front door and their carriage; or leading other gentlemen from the drawing room to the library where they were introduced and left to conduct whatever magical business had brought them out on such an unpropitious evening. Lascelles was, as always, at Norrell's side, offering advice and recommendations, prompting Mr. Norrell on what each minister or lesser grandee was likely to request before they came through the door. But Lascelles, for all his proximity to the magician, did not seem to notice what Childermass noticed. He did not discern that, while Norrell answered questions and spoke on matters of magical theory with the same authority he usually did, he was not quite himself. Even from his small desk in the corner by the window Childermass could see the weariness that dulled Norrell's small eyes, that seemed to crouch upon Norrell's shoulders like some black beast, weighing him down until - after some hours of consultation - he resembled a sack of flour, roughly handled and pushed into a corner, slowly spilling its contents from a small, hidden wound. From time to time Childermass would catch Norrell putting a hand to his brow, pressing against his temple with fingers that trembled a little; once he even saw Norrell dab at the corner of one eye with his handkerchief before hastily launching into a tirade against Lanchester's affection for the magic of ravens. If someone noted it - the glistening bead that dampened the skin at the edge of that eye - Norrell would excuse it away with some notion about a cold or the dryness of the winter air with so many fires burning. And Lascelles would accept it. But Childermass knew better.

It was only three days since Jonathan Strange had ended his partnership with Mr. Norrell. Only three days since Strange had sat in the chair across from where Norrell now huddled, taking tea and calmly refusing to continue as Norrell's pupil no matter what inducements were offered. Three short spans of twenty-four hours since Strange's tall figure had walked out the door of Hanover-square, very probably for the final time. For the first two days Norrell had made his excuses to all those who had appointments to see him, pleading a headache, and he had stayed in his bedroom or the small room upstairs to which he repaired on occasion to study in solitude. Even Lascelles had only been admitted for a brief time immediately following Strange's departure, and again for a couple of hours on the afternoon of the second day. Childermass had watched Norrell then, standing on the threshold of his beloved library, seeming almost reluctant to re-enter it, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides before he stepped through. While Lascelles had paced about the room, haranguing against Strange and arguing for all sorts of magical and more pedestrian punishments, Norrell had sat very silent and very still, his gaze upon some distant landscape. Lascelles had elicited so little enthusiasm from Norrell that even he had had to admit defeat after three hours and had left, expressing a hope that Norrell would be ready to work the next day. And indeed, Norrell had come down early the next morning and gone straight to the library, inquiring as to the day's appointments and the various projects in need of his attention. But Childermass had urged him to reconsider.

"You can take another day, sir. Or a week, even, if you need to. There's no harm in it. You've not had a break of any kind this many years, I think it's more than owed you. And you've accomplished so much, it won't hurt to rest a while."

"Why should I wish to rest, Childermass? Oh, I see." Norrell glanced up from a proof of the latest issue of _The Friends of English Magic_ and fixed Childermass with a brief, cold stare. "You think I am upset about Mr. Strange? Well, I'm disappointed, I won't deny it. But more than that? Nonsense. I am quite composed, Childermass. I made do quite well without Mr. Strange or anyone else for forty years, I think I shall do every bit as well now."

Norrell's focus was back on the paper in his hands and so he did not see the arch look Childermass gave him. "As you say, sir."

But now, in the snow-wrapped twilight, Childermass could plainly see that Norrell had been anything but ready for the day's pressures. As a man from the Admiralty prattled on about the necessity of the sea beacons extending such-and-such many miles north of the Orkney Isles, and Lascelles interrupted at frequent intervals to assure the man of Norrell's diligence and remind him of the great many other demands upon Norrell's time, Norrell began to chew at his bottom lip as if to repress some emotion that threatened to pour forth should he allow his mouth to open. At the same time his hands, laying atop the armrests of the chair, began to curl and uncurl, his fingers digging into his palms with enough force to turn the skin of his knuckles as white as the snow in the street. At last Childermass could watch in silence no longer and so he rose from his desk and crossed the room to reach his master's side.

"Mr. Norrell is unwell, sir. I am sorry for it, but the remainder of this conversation will need to be postponed to another time."

Lascelles and the Admiralty gentleman, both interrupted mid-sentence, looked up in shock.

"I beg your pardon? This is --"

"Don't be absurd!" Lascelles snapped, cutting off the Admiralty gentleman's words for perhaps the hundredth time that evening. Childermass ignored them both and laid his hand gently on Norrell's shoulder.

"Sir? I think you are need of a rest now."

Norrell blinked uncertainly up at Childermass, then gave a sudden shiver. It was as if Childermass had recalled him from the cold, barren place in which his thoughts had been wandering and now, returned to the present moment, he was all too aware of the chill he had taken. "Yes. Yes, I - I think you are right. Forgive me." And Norrell gave the Admiralty gentleman a weak gesture of apology with one hand while passing the other across his eyes.

Childermass nodded curtly to the Admiralty gentleman, who gave him a glare sufficient to sink a French battleship but said nothing more as he rose and was directed to the door. Childermass quickly explained the situation to Davey, and the two of them went around to each waiting gentleman in the hall and drawing room and politely, but firmly, dismissed them. This done - and a line of disgruntled, booted, top-coated gentlemen formed upon the front steps to await their icy conveyances - Childermass returned to the library, where Norrell still sat with one hand across his eyes and Lascelles had not moved.

"Have a pleasant evening, sir." Childermass addressed these words to Lascelles while holding open the library door. Rage passed like a smear upon glass across Lascelle's features, distorting them.

"You aren't serious? There's no need for me to leave, is there, Mr. Norrell?"

But Norrell neither responded to Lascelles nor put down his hand to look at him. Childermass gave Lascelles his most patient smile.

"I believe there is need, sir. Mr. Norrell has conducted quite enough business today, and it has fatigued him. And, besides, sir -- the snow is falling quite heavily now. You might be stranded here should you delay your departure longer. I’m sure you would not like that." Childermass thought, but did not add, and I’m quite certain I would not.

Lascelles glanced again at Norrell but, seeing no evidence of help coming from that quarter, he rose and marched with pounding steps into the hall. Lucas was already there, bundled into his scarf and greatcoat, waiting - on Childermass's previous orders - to conduct Lascelles home.

"You delight in this!" Lascelles spat, rounding on Childermass. "The constant interferences, lording it over everyone, ordering everyone about. Well, I shall not let it stand. Your time is almost at an end, Childermass. I shall make certain that Norrell realizes he would be as better off without you as he is without Strange!"

Childermass allowed one eyebrow to rise slightly higher than its normal station. "You may have a difficult time of it, sir. Mr. Norrell feels Mr. Strange's absence keenly, I can assure you."

"What utter nonsense! He is furious with Strange, as well he should be. They could not agree on anything of late. Why should Norrell regret him?"

"If you do not understand why, sir, I do not feel inclined to enlighten you."

Lascelles very nearly spluttered in his anger. "Impudent fool! How could you pass so many years in Norrell's service and still understand nothing about the good of English magic?" He snatched his hat from Davey's hand and went out into the snow, his heated breath a crystal cloud upon the air.

"It has nothing to do with English magic, you bloody sod,” Childermass muttered.

Returning to the library, Childermass found that Norrell had risen from his chair and was standing in front of the fire, gazing down into the flames. "I think I will retire early, Childermass."

"I think that would be best, sir. I'll have your supper sent up at the usual time --"

"No. No, I - I find I have no appetite." He turned from the fire but avoided Childermass's eyes. "I never have an appetite, you know, when I've a cold. It plagues me so, the headaches, the soreness of my throat. I think I've picked up a particularly bad one, too --"

It was all Childermass could do not to sigh audibly. As it was, his gaze went to the ceiling with despair before turning again to Norrell. "I think you should try to eat something, sir. For two days now you've barely touched your meals, you'll do yourself an injury."

"Nonsense. No one ever died from skipping meals, Childermass." On the contrary, Childermass had known many a person to have died from this cause - malnourished waifs in York, wasting away in filthy back-alleys from lack of a morsel - but he knew that Norrell's illogical statement was merely another symptom of his present malady. Norrell seemed to recognize the foolishness of his words as soon as they had left his mouth, for he waved his hand vaguely as if to dismiss the vibrations of them from lingering in the air. "I am tired, Childermass. I just want to go to bed."

Childermass stepped aside and watched his master begin ascending the staircase. Norrell moved like a man who had aged twenty years overnight: one careful step at a time, hand clutching the banister. Two of the maids had come into the hall to mop up the snowmelt that had accumulated on the tiles and as soon as Norrell had disappeared around the first turn in the staircase, one of them - the younger, sillier of the two - went over to the little table beside the door and opened the lid of the music box that sat there. Childermass saw her move in that direction out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he comprehended what she was doing it was too late. The pleasant little tune, like the chiming of distant church bells on a sunny spring day, echoed clear as struck crystal through the room.

_Perhaps he's too far up the stairs to hear it_ , Childermass thought. _Perhaps he won't_ \--

Norrell was back on the first landing, his face flushed scarlet, his features contorted in something that was like - and yet was not - fury. Childermass knew what that expression was. He had seen it before: on the face of a tanner's boy in Whitby who had just been whipped with a leather strap for stealing an apple from a market booth; in the stretched lips and wild, rolling eyes of a horse with a broken ankle, awaiting the blast of the gun. Norrell came halfway down the first flight of stairs, his eyes wide and full of that same animal hysteria, before screaming at the top of his voice: "Get that cursed box out of this house at once! Do you hear me?"

No one in the house - no one in Hanover-square, Childermass thought - could have failed to hear him. Both maids jumped in fright and goggled up at him, the one who had opened the music box beginning to tremble a little under the ferocity of his stare.

"I - I'm sorry, sir - I - I just - I just thought a little music - it being so dark a day --"

"Get rid of it!" Norrell screamed again, holding on to the banister with both hands, his whole body shaking, spittle flying from his lips. "Get rid of it, throw it outside in the street this moment, I never want to hear it again as long as I live!"

The younger maid stood frozen with terror, but the older, more sensible girl turned immediately and, fetching up the offending box of spinning gears, wrenched open the front door and pitched it outside into the snow. Childermass heard it chime out a few more notes before it suffocated in its cold bed. The door was quickly closed against the chill and everything was silent again.

"Mr. Norrell --" Childermass took a couple of steps towards the stairs, but Norrell had already turned and resumed his journey. Sighing, Childermass turned and gave the maids a look that communicated - in no uncertain terms - that they were never to speak of this incident to anyone, and they gathered their mops and scuttled off down the hall, the younger girl in tears, both of them white as the flakes that powdered the sky.

Every time he'd entered Hanover-square, Jonathan Strange had opened up that little music box. He'd stood, grinning down at the little silver figurine of a dancing bear that revolved with the music, tapping his foot to the tune. And, without fail, he would whistle the tune absent-mindedly at some point during the day: as he skimmed through a book, searching for a particular passage; as he filled the basin of water to practice conjuring visions. Childermass had watched Norrell on each of those occasions and seen that, most times, this whistling had earned Strange a look of rebuke that Strange had either never noticed or pointedly ignored.

But, from time to time, Childermass had heard the whistling and spied Norrell, face hidden behind an open book, wearing a soft and affectionate smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childermass confronts Norrell about the true nature of his indisposition.

Childermass took his meagre supper in his room, then went to check on Norrell. He had thought it best to give his master some time alone to calm himself before attempting to engage him in conversation. He rapped softly at the door of Norrell's bedchamber, half expecting to be denied entrance. "Mr. Norrell? I've come to see if you need anything."

"Come in, Childermass."

Norrell was seated in an armchair near the fireplace, wrapped in his dressing gown, a book in his lap. Childermass recognized the volume immediately: Hooper's _Grimoire of Blue Dream_ 1. Not a volume Norrell would ordinarily have picked up for some casual reading. It did not escape Childermass that Strange had been particularly fond of perusing the volume during the years of his study with Norrell. He had often watched Strange take the book down from its place, lean against the shelves, and prop the base of the spine upon his chest as he turned the pages, running a long finger down the margins. Sometimes in the early evenings Strange had taken the book to one of the armchairs near the fireplace and, placing it open upon his knee, had sipped his tea while reading it, pausing once and awhile to set his cup down, hug the book to his chest, and lean forward to make a note on a sheaf of paper on the little side table. Childermass saw that the book was only open to the title page and he realized, with a sudden little shifting sensation in his chest, that Norrell had not been reading it. He had simply been holding it; perhaps he had even lifted it to his nose - the edges of the spine and cover, some random interior page - to catch a lingering hint of Strange's scent.

"I - I was overly harsh with the maid earlier, Childermass," he said, his fingers splayed across the book like a caress. "I suppose she's given her notice?"

Childermass nodded. "About an hour ago."

Norrell sighed. "You shall need to hire another. Retaining reliable staff is always so troublesome, but I suppose in this case the fault is mine. And all because my head aches so that any unnecessary noise vexes me."

Childermass let this pass without comment. "It will not be difficult to find another, sir. There's plenty of women wanting work as a maid in this city. And it's hardly the first time I've been put to the trouble."

Norrell shot him a cold look. "You needn't make an issue of it, Childermass. I know I am considered an unpleasant man to work for." He sneered. "But it is hardly my fault if all the servants are so easily offended that they run off at the first irritation." His voice went quiet as his glance fell down upon the book again. "Perhaps they should try exercising a little more patience." Norrell closed the book and traced the design etched into the cover absently with one fingertip: an owl perched upon an astrolabe. "I mean to say, a person should be able to take into consideration the fact that I am sometimes troubled with colds and ague and all the little inconveniences attendant upon those afflictions. They should understand that, from time to time when I am troubled thus, I may - behave irritably, or - or - speak more sharply than I should. And as busy as I have been, and with so many demands made upon me - perhaps at times I am not as patient or attentive as I should be. Perhaps I - I do not explain myself as clearly as I could. Why can they not make allowances for these things, Childermass? Why can they not set these things aside and abide with me --"

"Forgive me, sir," Childermass said, "but are we still talking about the servants?”

Norrell looked up sharply, his blue eyes wide and rigid, set on Childermass's face. "Who else would I be talking of?"

Childermass dropped his gaze, studied the scuff marks on his shoes. After eighteen years he had learned that sometimes it was easier to extract a troubling truth from Norrell if you didn't force him to make eye contact. "Mr. Norrell, you haven't a cold. You haven't any physical complaint, and we both know it. You're pining for Mr. Strange. Why can you not just admit it?"

Norrell jumped up from his chair with surprising speed for an ill man and strode across the room. "You may leave, Childermass." His voice was quiet but shrill, a hiss of words between gritted teeth. "I'm too tired to listen to such nonsense."

"Yes sir."

"Pining??" Childermass had just gripped the doorknob when Norrell recrossed the room and grasped at his sleeve to turn him back around. " _Pining??_ " Anger flashed in Norrell's eyes, lightning crossing a clouded sky, and his lips curled as he snapped out each word. "Why should I pine for him, Childermass, you tell me that? Was it not Mr. Strange that betrayed me? Was it not Mr. Strange who thought it fit to air our disagreements in public? Was it not Mr. Strange --"

"Because you're in love with him, sir."

Norrell took a backward step, staring at Childermass as if his servant had struck him. For an instant the blood drained from his face, leaving him as pale as the landscape outside the window; then he reddened, a rose-glow like the heat of a fever spreading from cheek to cheek. Childermass drew a breath and soldiered on. He had made a beginning: there was no going back now.

"You love him and he's broken your heart," he said, giving a simple shrug. "Why deny it? When anyone with eyes might see it if they took the trouble to look? From the first day he came here and performed his bit of magic with the mirror... The way you looked at him --" Childermass shook his head. "I've known you long enough, Mr. Norrell, but I've never seen you look at anyone or anything the way you looked at Mr. Strange that day, not even one of your beloved first editions. Like you'd felt magic being done for the first time. Like you'd never known there was such a thing as magic until that moment."

For a long time Norrell didn't speak, didn't move except for a slight opening and closing of his mouth, as if he were trying - and failing - to form words upon his tongue. There was a kind of hollowness in his eyes, an absence of light, that cut Childermass to the quick and made him wish he had said nothing. The silence was worse than any scream. But finally, drawing himself up to his full height and half turning from Childermass - except for his eyes, which narrowed and bore into him like the points of daggers - Norrell spoke.

"How dare you say such a thing to me, Childermass. How dare -- I should turn you out this instant. I should have you thrown out in the street into the snow. To say such a thing to me, to - insinuate such a thing..."

"You make it harder on yourself, sir, denying it."

"How dare -- Get out." Norrell whispered the words, as if his voice had collapsed and no longer had the strength to rise. "Get out before I have you thrown out."

Childermass inclined his head. "I will see you in the morning, sir." Norrell said nothing more as Childermass withdrew and closed the door softly behind him.

In his own room, Childermass sat down upon the edge of his bed and looked at his hands. They trembled ever so slightly and the sight annoyed him. "Bloody fool," he muttered beneath his breath and clasped his hands together tightly to stop the movement. He could not be sure if Norrell had ordered him to leave his bedchamber or his house, but either way he was going no where. He had staked too much to withdraw now.

Laying back on his bed, Childermass stared at the guttering light of his single candle as it danced among the shadows on the ceiling. The man of business assessed matters and realized that his accounting had been faulty. He had not known - or, at least, he had not acknowledged - just how much he had wagered. Now the bets were being called in and he wondered if, in the end, he would be the real loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Anton Hooper (1562-1609) was a minor Argentine magician from Kent. _Grimoire of Blue Dream_ is his only known work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth is revealed on both sides.

It was past midnight when Childermass decided to return to Norrell's room, to humbly ask for admittance and try to make amends. He had come to regret his frank speech and hoped that he could find some method of excusing it away. He would beg fatigue. He would confess to a crude attempt at levity, gone bad. He would argue that he had meant it as a metaphor: that when he'd said Norrell was "in love" with Strange, what he'd really meant was that Norrell was drawn to the aura of magic that surrounded the man, and that he no doubt felt the absence of this aura the way a lover missed the warm body of their paramour. To hell with it: he'd say that he'd been drunk.

But as he knocked on the door of Norrell's room he realized that he'd say none of these things. He'd ask for Norrell's forgiveness, but he wouldn't backtrack. It wasn't in his nature.

"Mr. Norrell?" He called softly through the wood after knocking six times and receiving no answer. He rapped harder, called again in a louder tone. Nothing. Childermass felt a sudden inflow of ice through his veins, numbing his extremities, chilling the pit of his stomach as if he'd wandered out into the snowstorm. Had he pushed Norrell too hard? Had Norrell, sick with heartbreak and shame, done himself some harm? Childermass gripped the doorknob, his hand suddenly slick with sweat. The door was unlocked; Norrell's bed was empty.

Of course. Childermass cursed himself inwardly for his dullness. Where else would he be? _Grimoire of Blue Dream_ was gone from the armchair by the fireplace and no where else to be seen in the room. He went to the staircase.

The door to the library was unbarred by any mechanical or magical lock and Childermass stepped quietly inside. Norrell was standing behind one of the armchairs near the fireplace, his back to Childermass, but Childermass had no doubt that Norrell knew he was there. It was like that between them: each could sense the presence of the other before a word was said. If that were magic - or something else he had not yet named - Childermass didn't know. He stood without speaking, watching Norrell. His master was gently stroking the cushion of the chair, sliding a hand over its fabric as if it were the skin of a living creature. Childermass could picture the scene Norrell's inner eye dwelled on as clearly as if it were conjured up in a silver dish: Strange lounging lazily in the chair, _Grimoire of Blue Dream_ on his knee, long legs stretched out before him, shapely calves in fine grey stockings, one arm draped over the armrest, reaching for his teacup or a quill or a piece of paper, slender fingers curling and uncurling in the abstraction of his thoughts. His head, with its crown of thick dark curls, laying lightly back against the cushion. What were Norrell's fingers really caressing as they skimmed across the chair, Childermass wondered. Not stiff velvet and embroidered flowers, that was certain.

"Mr. Norrell." Childermass was not sure himself why he spoke, unless it was a desire to halt the painful scene unfolding before him.

"I was never lonely, Childermass. Before." Norrell turned to look at him, and in the dying firelight Childermass saw the glint of the tears that streaked over his cheeks. "All those years at Hurtfew - I never felt the absence of anyone. I was content. Content to be alone, with my books. With magic. I never longed for companionship. And even now - it is not loneliness, exactly..."

"He changed things, sir. Mr. Strange." Childermass took a few steps towards his master. "It's him you're longing for."

"I believe I could be in a room with a thousand people all clamoring for my attention, Childermass, and yet - if he were not there, I would feel as lonely as if I were the last person in the world."

The pain and embarrassment it cost Norrell to admit this was evident on his face. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes and his sight focused on the chair, unable to meet Childermass's gaze. Childermass swore inwardly, swore at himself, despising the way his throat seemed constricted, his breath unusually hard to draw.

"So you see, Childermass, this is why you must leave my service now." Norrell looked up finally, meeting his servant's eyes as he said this. "I can't have you continue on here, knowing... How could I look you in the face? No," he shook his head. "You must go. But if you go - then I will truly be alone." Norrell's voice broke the smallest bit upon the word.

"I'm not going anywhere, sir."

Norrell stared at him. The tears brimmed over his eyelids freely, dripped off his jaw onto the silk of his dressing gown. "What must you think of me?"

Childermass drew yet closer and, reaching out, laid his hand slowly over Norrell's where it rested on the top of the chair. It was an odd dichotomy to behold, his long, ink-stained fingernails against Norrell's smooth pale skin, but Norrell did not withdraw from his touch as Childermass half expected he might.

"I think, sir, that I've never felt more akin to you than I do in this moment."

Norrell opened his mouth, as if he intended to argue, then muttered out a simple: “Why?”

Childermass smiled. "I understand how you feel. I understand what you're mourning for. It's not all the days you spent with Strange you regret, it's all the days you didn't get. All the things you wanted to do - hoped that maybe you'd get to do - and now you fear you will not."

Norrell seemed to consider this. "I fear that I may never see Mr. Strange again. And, you're right - there were so many things I hoped that we might undertake. Ormskirk's Spell of Arrangement, for example, and - and Lanchester's theorem on the looping of time..."

"Not spells, sir." Childermass could not help the trace of impatience that crept into his tone. "You know that's not what I meant. I meant the things you would liked to have done with Mr. Strange. _To Mr. Strange_."

Norrell's eyes were positively wild as he met Childermass's gaze again: liquid with tears and glowing with firelight and something inside of him that seemed to have caught aflame. "Things..."

"You wanted to touch him, sir." Childermass curled his fingers beneath Norrell's, gripped them gently. He lifted Norrell's hand and laid it, wrapped in his own fingers, against his chest. "You wanted to hold his hand in yours, like this."

"I - I don't -" Norrell was spluttering but his eyes were riveted to where his hand rested upon Childermass's waistcoat, hypnotized by the strange sight.

Childermass brought his other hand up to cup Norrell's, to knead it softly with his fingers. "You wanted to feel him: the warmth of him, his skin against yours."

Norrell swallowed audibly. "I - when he first came here I did not think much of him. I mean to say, I did not think him any more handsome than any other man. And yet - when he did that bit of magic, when he put that paper into the mirror..." He swallowed again, his eyes still upon his hand being caressed in both of Childermass's. "In that moment I looked at him and I thought him - I thought him the most beautiful man I had ever beheld."

"Then it's natural, sir, isn't it? That you'd want to touch him. His hands --"

"I did. I did touch his hands. I held his hand, on several occasions. It was for the casting of a spell, one of Sutton-Grove's..." He started to turn away, as if to fetch the book down from the shelf, but Childermass held his hand harder, pressed it more tightly against his chest.

"And how did that make you feel, sir?" he asked softly.

"Feel?" Norrell thought for a moment and the ghost of a smile drifted across his mouth. "Like I was falling. Like I was drowning in a pool of warm water. And I didn't mind at all."

"He's very broad shoulders, Mr. Strange," Childermass continued, still caressing Norrell's hand between his. "Very thick curls..."

"Oh, Childermass." Norrell's eyes closed and his lips parted as he pictured Strange in his memory. "There were times, Childermass, when I almost - When I wanted nothing so much as to touch one curl, to feel it between my fingers..."

"To run your hands through it."

Norrell gave a great, shuddering sigh. That was when Childermass lifted his master's hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to Norrell's fingers.

Norrell's eyes flew open immediately, wide and alert. "Childermass --"

"His lips, sir," Childermass whispered. He brushed over Norrell's knuckles lazily, sloppily, letting the wet underside of his bottom lip make contact with his master's skin. A visible shiver ran through Norrell and he watched Childermass's actions with rapt fascination.

"Mr. Strange has a well-shaped mouth," Childermass continued, merciless. He took the edge of Norrell's index finger between his lips, sucked at it softly. A strange noise erupted from Norrell, something between a soft moan and a sigh. His mouth moved, as if he were trying to form words, trying to resist, but speech failed him. "Did you want to feel Mr. Strange's mouth, sir? Feel it against your skin? Did you want to know what it felt like, how warm it was? How wet?"

Childermass took the end of Norrell's finger into his mouth suddenly and bit down softly with his teeth. Then he sucked at it, rather harder, letting his tongue caress its underside with slow, languid strokes. Norrell responded with an even more violent shudder, but still he did not attempt to pull away. "Childermass -- what -- what are you doing?"

Childermass drew Norrell's finger from his mouth slowly, leaving it glistening in the firelight. "Trying to show you, sir, that there's no shame in what you're feeling." He turned Norrell's hand over and pressed his mouth to the tender skin of his wrist, letting his teeth scrape gently, letting the tip of his tongue draw a little wet circle against Norrell's flesh.

"Childermass --" Norrell's voice was weak, pleading, and he stepped closer to Childermass, grasping at the cloth of Childermass's waistcoat with his unoccupied hand. But it was a light and unsteady touch: not the touch of a man trying to resist, but the faint clutch of a drowning man who no longer cares to stay afloat.

Childermass dropped Norrell's hand suddenly and took his master's face in both his hands. "Do you see, Mr. Norrell? Why it is that I understand you? Why it is I could never judge you? I know the things you hoped for with Mr. Strange. To be near him. To touch him. To kiss him." Childermass moved his thumbs gently against Norrell's cheeks, brushed them lingeringly across his lips. He eased the tip of one thumb between Norrell's lips so that his master might taste him. "Did you want to kiss him, Mr. Norrell?"

Norrell seemed dazed and for a moment he could do nothing but stare back into Childermass's dark eyes. Then, licking at his bottom lip where Childermass's thumb had just been, he said in a voice almost weaker than a whisper: "More than anything in the world."

Childermass nodded. Slowly, easily, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Norrell's. As his lips met his master's he wondered if Norrell had ever been kissed before. He doubted it, and yet - if so - Norrell was a quick study. After a moment, in which he remained frozen with surprise, he responded to the pressure of Childermass's mouth by parting his lips and tugging gently at Childermass's own. Childermass dove forward, still gently but with increasing fervor, one hand going to Norrell's back, the other cupping the back of his head, and he drew the magician tighter against him, taking great tastes of him and thrusting forth his tongue. Norrell gave a small squeak at the first feel of his servant's tongue skimming across his own and then he pressed his own tongue forward to meet and challenge it, and his hands fisted the cloth of Childermass's waistcoat in a desperate grasp.

"Childermass." His name came breathless from Norrell's lips as Childermass broke the kiss, moving his mouth instead to his master's cheek, ear, the angle of his jaw.

"I understand what it is you want from Mr. Strange," Childermass whispered, nibbling at his earlobe, dragging lips and teeth and tongue along the line of Norrell's jaw, murmuring quietly between kisses. "Haven't I spent eighteen years wanting you to look at me once - just once - the way you look at him? Haven't I spent eighteen years wanting these same things from you?"

"I - I didn't know," Norrell muttered. He turned his head a little, as if trying to catch Childermass's mouth for another kiss. "I didn't --"

Childermass's fingers fumbled with the knot in Norrell's neckcloth. He was consumed now, frenzied: no longer thinking about coaxing Norrell to speak of his feelings for Strange, no longer wishing to merely comfort him with the offer of alternative flesh. A fiery disdain for Jonathan Strange flamed up suddenly in Childermass's heart. He didn't want his master to speak of Strange again. He didn't want his master to think of Strange anymore.

When he'd drawn the neckcloth off Norrell's neck, Childermass buried his face against his master's pale skin, going at it voraciously with sucking kisses, soft, nibbling bites. He rubbed his jaw against Norrell, letting his stubble prick and burn, and Norrell trembled in his arms. Muttering incoherently, Norrell raised one hand to the back of Childermass's head, threaded his fingers into his hair, while the other hand still grasped Childermass's waistcoat as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

"J - John--" Norrell whimpered.

Childress smiled, slicked his tongue against the throbbing pulse in Norrell's neck. The night unfolded itself before his mind; the coming days, too, with the snow-clogged London streets impassable, no callers waiting to see Norrell, no one in the house but the servants, and they could be sent away... Childermass nipped at Norrell's skin and his left hand began its downward descent, traveling over Norrell's chest, searching out his breeches. There would be so many things Norrell had not had the knowledge to imagine doing to Strange, so many things he had not dreamed of Strange doing to him. Those things would belong to Childermass alone...

Norrell's head fell back and he moaned softly. "Oh! Oh, J - Jonathan!”

As if he were the gears of the music box, laying out in the street in the snow; as if he were rainwater trickling down a pipe when the snowfall began, Childermass froze on the instant. He felt the quick, shallow breath raising Norrell's chest rapidly; felt the pounding of Norrell's heart, the heat rising from his skin. None of it was for him. Childermass's hands fell away from Norrell's body; his breath stuck in his throat. He closed his mouth and drew back from Norrell's neck, his body straightening, his eyes upon his shoes, a leaden coldness settling in his chest.

Norrell's eyes had flown wide again and he stared at Childermass, his face a mask of horror. "No - no - Childermass. John! John - please -"

He caught at Childermass's hand before he could turn away. Childermass looked into his master's eyes and saw the tears welling up again, watched them tremble on his lashes and tumble down upon his cheeks.

"John." Norrell pressed Childermass's hand between both of his. "You know. You have wrung it from me, I can't deny it." He brought his servant's hand to his mouth, pressed a wet, blubbering kiss into his palm. "Yes, I love Mr. Strange. I desire Mr. Strange. With all of my mind and body and soul." Norrell held the back of Childermass's hand against his cheek, wetting it with his tears. "He has my heart and he has taken it and trod upon it and thrown it into the gutter! I cannot deny it. But I will survive. Yet if you leave me too, Childermass --" Norrell looked up at him through his fast-falling tears, his lips trembling in the extremity of his distress. "If you leave me -- I could not bear it. I could not bear it!"

Childermass stared at his master, watching the smaller man cry. The coldness melted, just a bit.

"Come now, sir." Childermass wrested his hand out of Norrell's grasp and passed it softly over his master's cheeks, brushing at the tears. "Come. Didn't I tell you? I'm not going anywhere."

He drew Norrell into his arms. The magician collapsed completely then. Clinging to Childermass, his head against his servant's chest, Norrell sobbed like a frightened child. Childermass stroked Norrell's back, rested his head upon his master's, from time to time placing a gentle kiss upon Norrell's brow.

Perhaps he was not wanted, not as he had hoped to be. But he was needed. And for the time being, that was good enough.


End file.
